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Three Hours Away


Wake up early, face turned up as if to the moon, 

Flushed instead, lambent, not too sweet. Outside

the crisp air reminds me how much I love

this sweater. I’m going to steal it

from you. Encircled by a cloud of mist,

fresh-scented and clean. 

Elsewhere, worries wither from lack of use, fray

free from the fingers. We make what feels good a ritual,

admit that it is hard, but even the effort 

is irresistible work.

Not like the world 

outside here. Not like the world we know. 

I pray I’ll return here a thousand times 

or more, where night turns mist into smoke from a campfire, 

freshly ground black pepper tossed 

down by a bored god or child,

where my hair is always sort of damp, 

but always feels clean. Without the shimmer 

of luck. Here, where the pillow is also a cloud,

where every wall sheaths massive windows between me 

and the outside. Tender leaves on time-scarred branches

remind me of you; delicate, vulnerable, unmoving only in sleep. 

To tell you the truth, 

I am not here at all. 

Lay your head beside me in bed or a bed of moss; 

douse me in emeralds or uprooted clovers

until the planet is scorched and dry, 

there is this—pleasure blooming from end to beginning again.

Anna Press is a writer and high school English teacher based in Brooklyn, NY. She writes all manner of things: book reviews, fiction, personal essays, and poetry. She is a proud dog-mom to three errant but loving dachshunds, and is really into plants and gardening. Her writing can be found in The Daily Drunk Mag, the Columbia Journal, Glass Poetry, Necessary Fiction, and Kissing Dynamite Poetry’s print anthology, Lift Every Voice.

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